The Empty Flat
by SherlockIsReal
Summary: When a mysterious security video is handed over to the police, it reveals some disturbing new evidence of the day Sherlock jumped. And when it reveals some new clues, John and Lestrade vow to solve Sherlock's puzzle from beyond the grave.
1. Special Delivery

((This piece was inspired by SACD's 'The Empty House.' I have taken this story and merged it with BBC's Sherlock to create my own version of how things might unfold in the third series.))

((I do not own any of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fantastic creations.))

The beginning of the strangest day of my life started with a phone call from Lestrade. It had been over two years since we'd stopped the phone calls. Without Sherlock... well we didn't have much to say to each other. So I was pleasantly surprised to find his name flashing on my caller ID.

"John." His voice was hard and clear like it used to be when he was hot on a scent.

"Greg! It's been too long. How are things-"

"I need you to come down to the station right away," he told me quickly. "Will you come?"

My brows climbed in surprise and I glanced around my modest apartment, taking a second or two to process the sudden request. Even though Mrs. Hudson and I remained in talks, I couldn't force myself to remain in 221B Baker Street alone. Too many fond memories and stolen adventures haunted those walls.

"I'm not busy but this is rather sudden," I told him lightly.

"Trust me," he assured me, "you'll want to see this. Will you come?"

I grunted as I grabbed my cane and hoisted myself from my couch. "I'm on my way."

Sargent Sally Donovan was waiting for me in the lobby. She hadn't changed much. She still held herself like a woman who knows how to get her way and she jutted her chin at me as I approached. But something in her expression made me pause. While the rest of her face was set rigidly, her eyes danced in the florescent lights. They were red and raw. She greeted me briskly and led me to Lestrade's office where the Detective Inspector was fiddling with a roll-in TV as Anderson watched him silently. At my entrance he jerked upright and rung my hand firmly.

"What's this all about?" I asked him curiously.

"Thought you'd want to see this," he said holding a silver DVD in his raised hand. I examined it and a chill ran through me. Somebody wrote across the reflective surface: Keep your eyes fixed on me. I stared at him wildly and his gaze appraised my reaction.

"It means something to you, doesn't it?" he asked.

I nodded hesitantly. "Sherlock said that to me. Just before he jumped. What's on that disc?"

"It's a video from the security camera on the rooftop of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital on the day it happened," he told me.

"There was no security camera," I said certainly. "We checked, remember?"

"Yeah I know."

"So then how-"

"Just watch it," he cut me off. "'Cause frankly I don't have any more answers than you do."

Anderson turned off the lights and leaned against the door frame next to the unusually silent Donovan. The first few frames that rolled on the tape was just a shot of the empty rooftop but after five minutes and thirty-six seconds, according to the time stamp, James Moriarty appeared with his cellphone in hand. He perched himself on the ledge and stared off into the distance, checking his watch occasionally, until the phone rang.

"Hello?" he asked calmly. "Is it done? … Has John Watson left the building? … In a taxi? … Excellent. Tisk tisk, you really can't rely on ordinary people, can you? ... Very well. He should be on his way up here now. Keep your guns at the ready Sebastian. Remember- not unless he hits the ground."

A moment after he hung up, the door to the roof opened slowly and my heart sank as the dark figure I knew so well stepped out onto the sunlit roof. We all watched as the two exchanged cryptic banter at one another. Then Moriarty began to taunt him about how easy it was to convince the world that he was the fraud. I rose from my chair, chest heaving and teeth grinding. I slapped the metal chair to the ground in a fit of anger. Lestrade paused the DVD and grasped my shoulders firmly. I knocked his hand away and stuck my finger into his chest.

"After all the times he saved your ass, you were the first to turn your back on him. After that woman," I snarled in Donovan's direction, "that woman who never once called him anything but 'freak'- planted that bit of doubt in your head. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Donovan sank further against the wall while Anderson patted her shoulder comfortingly.

"I am ashamed John," he told me quietly. "I'll never forgive myself for it. But there's more."

"I don't need to see the rest," I snarled bitterly. "I was there, remember? I know how this fairytale ends. _Burned to a crisp_."

"No John. There's something else at the end of the video. As hard as this is going to be, you have to promise to watch till the end or I'll handcuff you to that chair," he warned.

"That's illegal," I told him.

At this he chuckled. "Who are you going to tell? The police?"

It took all of my military training to keep myself together as the film continued. Nothing could have prepared me for the terrible truth. The words that came from Moriarty's lips would undoubtedly haunt me for the rest of my life. "_Your friends will die if you don't_." It felt as if the world had stopped revolving under my feet. Time seemed to freeze as Sherlock did until he whispered my name. I began to rise from my chair but Lestrade pushed me back down.

"Until the end," he said as Sherlock's voice murmured Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade's names.

"Greg, I can't. Please-" I begged him. But he held me down firmly.

Then we watched as the villain put the pistol to his mouth and pulled the trigger. I blinked in sheer incredulity and confusion.

"To answer your next question- no. We didn't find his body," he told me.

"But... _how_?"

I listened as Sherlock dialed my phone for the last time. I marveled at him as I listened to him lie to me. He had as much skill in lying as he did in observing. Then I watched my friend disappear over the ledge. The room was still and deadly quiet as the camera continued filming the rooftop. The only movement was the slow trickle of Moriarty's blood across the cement.

Just as I raised my head to Lestrade, he pointed back at the screen. A group of men dressed from head to toe in black flooded the rooftop. We could see them swiftly removing the corpse while another walked to the camera. The last image was the black figure's hand covering the lens and then it went dark. After a moment an image flashed across the screen. It read: _Pick my skull_.


	2. Pick My Skull

"What the hell was that all about?" I asked him bewildered.  
>"We've got an appearing and disappearing camera, a group of unknowns deposing of a body, and a cryptic message. And to top it all off, no one knows where this DVD came from," Lestrade said taking the silver mystery between his long fingers.<p>

"Surveillance cameras?" I asked him.

"Wiped clean," Anderson told me with the sound of annoyance dripping from his words.

I stared at the silver disc as it caught the light from the window and repelled it as Lestrade flipped it this way and that in his hands. _Keep your eyes fixed on me_. Sherlock's desperate plea resounded in my mind as clearly as if he had just said it. The fact that it was now written across the video was a mystery to me. "Pick my skull. Pick my skull." I murmured to myself.

"What the hell does it mean?" Lestrade asked me.

"It sounds like him, doesn't it?" Donavan's asked quietly. We all turned to stare at her and she lifted her eyes to ours briefly. "This has 'freak' written all over it." If it hadn't been for the fact that it almost sounded endearing, I would have chewed her out.

"It had to be some kind of inside job," Anderson offered. "Who could just sneak into a guarded station, drop the DVD into your mailbox, get into the security room and then distract the guard long enough to wipe the cameras clean?"

Lestrade seemed to loll it over. "Even if it was an inside job, how did they get the video to begin with?" Anderson shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips.

While they threw ideas around I stared at Donavan. Something about what she said was bothering me. "It sounds like him?"

She shrugged. "Cryptic. Unsolvable. Curious."

After a moment of deep thought I had to agree with her. "It does. But we both know that's impossible."

"What about 'pick my skull?' What could that mean?" Lestrade asked me.

"Depends on who made the video I guess," I told him. Suddenly a string of thoughts blazed through me that made the hair on my neck stand up. It really _did_ sound like him. But he couldn't have had anything to do with the disc. But if he did... Pick my skull... then in a sudden rush of understanding I cried, "SKULL!" The other three stared at me dubiously and I wondered if that was what Sherlock felt after revealing a mystery. "We have to go to Baker Street."

Mrs. Hudson answered the door enthusiastically and wrung me around the middle. After a few words, she led us up the seventeen steps to the door I had not passed through in almost three years. After she unlocked it for us she hobbled back downstairs to prepare some tea. I stopped dead in my tracks in the doorway. The rooms were exactly as I had left them. The chemistry set sat abandoned on the table, Sherlock's violin was perched on the windowsill by the music stand, and our arm chairs sat facing each other like we had for so many hours. But my eyes were only for the mantle piece. Sherlock's other best friend, as I liked to call it, stared back at me with it's forever grinning teeth. I strode across the threshold and picked up the skull that served as his idea bouncer. I flipped it this way and that until my fingers felt a protrusion from inside the left eye socket. I peeled it away carefully and found a small piece of paper. On it were the words: Death is boring. I dropped into my old chair and examined the tiny slip of paper. Lestrade sat down in Sherlock's chair across from me. Something must have shown in my expression because he got up and sat on the arm.

"Death is boring," I read out loud.

"In times like this I wish he were around to give some answers," Lestrade sighed.

Sally peered at the queer little note over my shoulder and her eyes opened wider by a fraction. "What if he is..."

"What are you talking about?" Anderson asked her curiously.

"Hear me out before you guys jump down my throat," she requested holding up her hands. "What if... what if _he's_ the one leaving these clues?"

Lestrade gaped at her. "Are you seriously suggesting that he's alive?"

"Let's be honest," she said defensively, "he's done stranger."

"Did you forget I was there?" I asked her. "I saw him fall. Saw the blood. I watched them wheel his body away!"

"John, you of all people should know what he's capable of," she told me sternly.

I chuckled darkly. "What's this Sally? Now that you've had proof shoved under your nose, you're trying to make yourself feel better about being the first one to spread the lies?"

Her face flushed scarlet and she adverted her eyes from mine. "Yes. … If you must know." I watched as she sank away from me and busied her eyes around the room.

As hard as I tried to push the idea from my mind, the harder it fought to remain. I mean, the idea was simply absurd. Sherlock had been dead three years. A bit of odd occurrences doesn't bring the dead back to life. But a nagging sensation tugged in the back of my mind.

"This isn't his handwriting," I told them with as much certainty as if it were my own. "But only he would hide something in that skull. And only I would know what the message on the tape meant."

"But if it were meant for you why would they send the tape to us?" Lestrade asked me.

"Maybe they want the police involved? No, that doesn't sound right," I waved the thought away. "How did you find it exactly?"

"It was in my mailbox in the office sealed in an envelope addressed to me," Lestrade told me.

I thought about it for a moment. "Not the police then. Just you Greg. Someone wanted your attention."

"Maybe they'd known I would call you which is why they left that message for you at the end of it," he offered.

"Someone is playing us like a fiddle," I said replacing the skull on the mantlepiece. At that moment Mrs. Hudson slid through the door with a tray of tea. She set it down and began dealing out wafers on her good china.

"Has anyone been through this room Mrs. Hudson?" I asked her curiously.

"Just me- cleaning, you know. Mycroft pays me good money to keep it tidy. So I do a bit of dusting here and there."

"Mycroft?" I asked her curiously.

"Oh yes. He pays me double what you two did just to keep things exactly as they were and obviously not to rent it out. He likes to come up here sometimes and just sit by the fire. I think it comforts him, the poor dear."

Lestrade snorted thoughtfully. "I didn't think Mycroft was the sentimental type."

"He's _not_," I said giving him a meaningful look. Then I flicked my eyes at Mrs. Hudson and then back to him. He nodded in acknowledgment and we silently agreed that she was not to know about our dealings.

We stayed for an hour more until the sun began to set, turning the sky into a pallet of reds and purples. Then we bid Mrs. Hudson goodbye after promising to visit again soon. We sat in Lestrade's car for a while and talked things over.

"What's next?" Anderson asked. "Death is boring. That doesn't give us a lead."

When I examined the words in my head they meant nothing specific. But when I imagined the words coming from my friend's mouth it turned into something else entirely.

"Death is _boring_," I said my eyes widening.

"What about it?" Lestrade asked.

"Think," I implored, "what was the one thing Sherlock couldn't do?"

They thought collectively for a moment and finally Sally said, "Sit still."

I cracked a half-mad grin at her. "A coffin would be Sherlock's worse nightmare."

Lestrade started the engine and raced off into the darkened night. "Then let's go pay him a visit. But first we have to stop and get some shovels."


	3. Mycroft

It was in mutual agreement that our mission was to be kept private. After all, when one plans on breaking the law they certainly don't ask for help from the police. And the desecration of a grave was very illegal. So the four of us hopped the gates to the cemetery, shovels in hand, and made our way his grave. The onyx colored tombstone glistened in the moonlight cheerfully at us as we approached it. I had spent many an afternoon talking with my reflection against it's smooth marble surface. Sally kept a look out while we tore into the earth with our shovels as quietly as we could. It took almost three hours before the tip of my shovel collided with something hard and solid. We all stopped to look at one another for a moment and then we dropped to all fours using our hands to clear the rest of the dirt away from the top of the coffin I had chosen for him. Anderson took the crowbar we had brought and began working on cracking it open. I took the opportunity to climb out of the hole and I turned my back on the scene.

"John?" Sally asked warily. "What's wrong?"

"Sorry," I whispered. "It's just... if we're wrong... I can't bear another terrible image of him. I'll live with the image of him on the pavement for the rest of my life. The last thing I need is another one."

She stepped over to me and laid her hand on my shoulder gently, then turned to Anderson and jerked her head at him to continue. I heard the cracking of the wood against the metal instrument as he twisted it this way and that trying to pry it open. Then suddenly there was a loud snap and a moment of silence as Anderson paused. Finally the eerie creaking of the lid filled the night. For what seemed like ages no one said anything. My heart pounded in my ears and my throat ran dry.

"I'll be damned," Anderson muttered.

Without waiting to hear the answer, I spun to peer into the coffin. It was empty. Empty save for a slip of paper that rested on the pillow. It read: _Mycroft. _

It appeared that I fainted. I woke up sprawled on the ground with Sally nursing my head while the boys were trying to fill the grave back up to cover our tracks.

"My god," I said trying to stand too quickly, only to stumble back down to the floor.

Lestrade held his hands up at me worriedly. "Don't go getting too excited yet, we don't know for sure if he's alive or not."

"The coffin is empty. Empty," I stammered in disbelief.

"The paper just has Mycroft written on it. I suppose we're to go to him next," Lestrade said holding up the paper into the air.

"It's four o'clock in the morning," Anderson pointed out. "Where do you plan on finding him now?"

"The Diogenese Club."

By the time we filled the grave back up entirely and drove to Mycroft's usual haunt, it was nearly seven in the morning. We stormed the front doors of the enormous and magnificent building without incident, which I thought rather odd but given the circumstances I was glad of it. When we pushed open the heavy russet doors we found Mycroft sitting at his desk hunched over a newspaper. At our intrusion, he lifted his eyes and smiled like a child who had gotten away with a bit of mischief.

"This is unexpected," he noted. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of-"  
>"Where is he?" I asked him.<p>

His brow crumpled suspiciously. "Who?"

"You know damn well who. Your _brother_," I told him. His amused expression melted away instantly and turned into a look of morbid curiosity.

"What are you talking about?"

I held the note up to him and then threw it on top of his desk. "_That_ was the only thing inside Sherlock's grave."

He examined it closely and placed it on the desk delicately. Without raising his eyes from it he said, "I think an explanation is in order."

Lestrade puffed out his chest and said, "You'd better have a good one."

Mycroft rolled his eyes like a teacher would at a dull student. "I meant from _you_. Tell me everything, start to finish, excluding no details."

We started with the video and led him along our steps that brought us to him. He leaned forward in his chair and pressed his fingertips together deep in concentration as he listened. When we finished he didn't move or speak. I knew from dealing with his brother that it was best not to disturb him until he was ready to talk. The newcomer into the room didn't know 'Holmes Etiquette' apparently.

He was an old haggard thing with a mane of white bristly hair and matching brows. His nose was long and pointed covering a row of gnarled yellow teeth. He carted in a basket of newspapers and magazines and muttered to himself as the cart caught the edge of the throw rug.

"Mr. Holmes," he said in an attempt to sound gentlemanly-like. "Your papers. Today's Sun looks promising."

The man's intrusion was hardly worthy of the glare Mycroft gave him. "Basil- can't you see I have an appointment?"

The old man appraised us with chocolate colored eyes, unimpressed. "Not as 'to do' as your regulars."

"You should talk," Sally shot back at him. At this he flashed a yellow smile at her and bowed slightly.

"No harm meant girly, no harm meant."

Mycroft tossed the paper he had been reading into the cart and extracted the newest edition of Sun magazine with another hard look at the old man.

"Seems like everyone's in a disputatious mood today," Basil grumbled as he turned the cart around and walked out.

Mycroft went back to the paper and studied it for a moment longer then sighed and leaned back into his chair. "I admit- for once I am at a loss."

"We think he's alive," I told him.

Mycroft gave me the same scolding look he did when I wouldn't give him my hand the first time we met. "You don't seriously believe that, do you?"

No one wanted to be the first to answer until Anderson said, "I think we have to entertain the possibility. It's the only explanation-"

"Of_ some_ of the facts," Mycroft corrected him before he finished the sentence.

"Look," I said flatly, "only he would know where to leave the clue about the grave so that I would find it."

"And the men in black?"

"We thought that's where you came in," Lestrade admitted.

"You're wrong. As per usual," he chided making Lestrade knit his brows together angrily.

"What about the flat then? Why would you pay Mrs. Hudson to keep the rooms exactly as they are?" I asked him. He adverted his eyes to the window and placed his fingers to his temples tiredly. "Oh come on. I know as well as you do that _sentiment_ is not high on your list of priorities."

"To loose a brother is a terrible thing. But the burden of knowing that your own mistake cost him his life is a heavy one. Even I can understand that," he told me quietly. "But I think there is something very wrong with this business. I fully agree that this deserves looking into. Someone is trying to get our attention. If you really want to help then let Baker Street be your next stop."

"Baker Street?" I asked him curiously.

He smiled at me cunningly. "I set up cameras in the flat shortly after the funeral."

"Why?" Lestrade asked him curiously.

"There are vast records and indexes my brother kept that would be most problematic if they were to fall into the wrong hands. As a natural precaution-"

"Brilliant!" I exclaimed. "When they placed the note in the skull- they'll be on the cameras!"

Mycroft smiled at me and waved an elegant hand at the door. "Off you pop."

We raced to Baker Street with excitement akin to the old days rushing through me making my heart hammer and my hands grow steady as rocks. We bolted out of the car and jumped up the two steps to the door that held the numbers 221B. We climbed the seventeen steps and barged through the door to the flat to find a handsome young man sitting in Sherlock's chair. His eyes were black as coals and his ebony hair was swept all around as if he had just come from strong winds. Dog-tags hung around his neck and disappeared in the folds of his leather jacket. In his hand was a shiny silver pistol. He flashed a winsome smile at us and used the gun to salute to us.

"Sabastian Moran. Pleased to make your acquaintance."


	4. Resurrection

In an instant, we were grabbed from behind by a group of thugs armed with guns. There was one for each of us and I noticed only too late that another had bound Mrs. Hudson up and gagged her in the corner. Tears streamed down her face as she watched them began to tie our hands behind our backs. Lestrade tried nobly to grab his pistol from the back of his trousers only to be knocked in the head by the butt of his attacker's gun.

"Don't bother," Moran told us dryly. "It really is no use."

"Who are you?" I growled at him.

"An 'ol enemy of your friend Sherlock!" he said with a deranged childlike glee that resembled Moriarty's old flare. "I thought that one would have been obvious. But then again, Jim always did tell me that you were on the slow slide."

"Jim?" Sally asked looking at me and Lestrade.

"James Moriarty," I told her with the old resentment lurking in my eyes as I fixed them on her.

"But why are you doing this?" Lestrade asked him as the gunman seated us on the couch together and fixed their pistols on us in case we tried to escape. "Revenge for your fallen leader?"

"It's been three years. Time to move on don't you think?" I asked him sarcastically.

Moran's face grew dark and his eyes burned with hatred. "Jim was me best friend. Surely you can understand that eh, Dr. Watson?"

"He was a deranged psychopath," I spit at him.

"He was brilliant," he snarled. "And the kindest man I ever knew."

I laughed despite our grim circumstances. "Kindest? What kind of sorry life did you know to call him that?"

Moran reclined into Sherlock's armchair and a dreary look flitted across his face. "I don't mind telling you. I was an army brat, like yourself," he said jingling the dog-tags around his neck to show us. "Dishonorably discharged on account of some mischief. When they kicked me out onto the streets, I had no where to go. No family who would take me and no job to support me. I spent what little I had left from me army days on hotels and made a bit o' money from a life of crime. Not to brag, but I was well known around the base as the best sniper they'd ever seen. I can pick a flee off a dog from six hundred yards. Well that kind of talent gets attention. And while I was earning a fair bit of money from assassination jobs, Jim heard 'bout me. He approached me with an offer. 'Be mine and you'll never want for anything again,' he said. Well I'd have been an idiot to refuse. At first it was all business. But Jim seemed to take pleasure in my company. He was always impressed by my talents." His face flushed like a girl when flattered. "He made me feel special. Indispensable. For someone like me- it was intoxicating."

"He played you like he did all his pawns," I told him.

"Nah," he said waving his right hand which was calloused from extensive gun holding. "He really did value me, despite what it may seem."

"So you're going to kill us to avenge him?" Anderson asked him with a tinge of fear in his voice.

Moran laughed heartily. "Jim played the game knowing the rules. He danced with death all on his own and it would have been one thing if he died fairly. But Jim was cheated. He took his life in exchange for eternity in hell with Sherlock Holmes. Jim put Sherlock in checkmate but Sherlock made an illegal move, didn't he?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked him hardly following his strange banter.

"He cheated. He didn't die."

"Yes he did," I told him.

"I've been following you lot for the past three years," he told me offhandedly. "Jim told me before he met Mr. Holmes on the rooftop to keep an eye on you in case of any foolery. Imagine my delight when you lot started doing peculiar things. A sudden visit to Baker Street, some late night grave robbing, and a visit to his brother Mycroft. Peculiar series of errands, don't you think?" I felt the blood leave my face. He had been following us the whole time. He knew Sherlock wasn't in the coffin. "Whether or not I kill you really depends on what _he_ does. I sent a message to Mycroft Holmes addressed to Sherlock informing him of your current danger and to come at once if he wished to see you alive. I'm going to make him play fairly this time, you see. Jim _will_ have his eternal partner if it's the last thing I do. It's the least I can do to repay him. It's your lives in exchange for his. Just like before only this time- I'm going to put a bullet in his brain."

I struggled against my bonds and my captor cocked his gun at me. I snarled profanities at him and then the slow creaking of the door sliced through the room and everything went still. In slow testing steps the familiar sparse figure appeared through the door. His black coat fluttered with each movement and his fingers tapped against his clasped hands behind his back. His crystalline eyes found mine first and then darted around the room, absorbing information like a dark hole. Mrs. Hudson let out a muffled cry beyond her gag and Lestrade let out a groan of disbelief. Sally stared at him wide eyed and incredulous as if she hadn't really believed him to be alive up till now. I couldn't move. It felt like I had turned to stone. My mouth hung and my eyes sat transfixed on him.

"I told you before," he said to Mrs. Hudson in the voice I remembered so well, "don't give them the satisfaction of sniveling."

Moran stood slowly, eyes unblinking and mad with anticipation. "We meet at last."

"_Sebastian Moran_." The name rolled off Sherlock's tongue as if he'd practiced saying it many times. "So it's come to this."

"Sherlock run," I croaked.

My friend turned to look at me with a smile in his eyes. "Not this time John. I'm tired of running."

"You're going to do this quietly then? That's no fun," Moran told him, fingering the silver gun in his hand.

"Listen when I speak," my friend told him impatiently, "I said I was tired of running. I never said anything about dying- which I won't by the way."

"Jim told me about your overconfidence," Moran told him with an admiring tone. "Before I shoot you, would you tell me how you did it? The fall I mean."

Sherlock grinned at him and paced around the room taking in everything that Mycroft had kept the same. "Buses."

"Buses?" Lestrade repeated.

Sherlock turned on me and peered down at me with a grin picking at the corners of his lips. "Only John could fully understand my method so we'll talk this out together, shall we? What was the message at the end of the tape?"

"So you did send it," I confirmed making him sigh impatiently.

"I've been waiting for this conversation for three years. Please keep up."

"Sorry," I grumbled. "Keep your eyes fixed on me."

"Precisely. Why would I ask that?" he indulged.

I thought about it for a while but drew up no more conclusions than all the other times I pondered the question. When I didn't answer right away, Sherlock continued with as much patience as a child on Christmas.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me so that you don't see the trick being set up _below_. Tell me exactly what you saw John."

"You... threw the cell phone away, held up your arms... then jumped."

"Good- now what _didn't_ you see?" he asked me. When I looked at him curiously he said impatiently, "think."

My eyes widened and I whispered, "I didn't see you hit the ground."

"Very good. Why?"

"The buses. There were buses in the way."

"Precisely! Buses with a group of my brother's associates prepared with a fire net to catch me. I fell, they caught me, then with the help of Molly- splashed some blood on me and jumped back into the buses which then took off. I had a man on a bike knock you down to discombobulate you so you wouldn't notice the disappearing buses. Even you would notice something was strange if normal buses just took off after witnessing a suicide beside them. Normal people would have jumped out to help. The bike was a distraction. Moran, I deduced your sniping location in the building across the street. I knew you'd look for a spot where you could have a perfect snipping location to shoot John if I didn't jump. I made sure that you would have the same illusion as John. Luckily the buses were tall enough to conceal the trick from your angle as well," he explained in his quick precise way.

"T-the doctors," I stammered.

"Mycroft's men too," he told me simply. "Notice how they wouldn't let you get too close to me?"

"Yes, they kept ripping my hand away when I tried to take your pulse."

"Don't think I underestimate your medical skills John. I knew you couldn't be fooled up close, so I had them restrain you and wheel me off into safety as quickly as possible."

"Brilliant," Moran marveled. "I see why Jim was so obsessed with you. You're peas in a pod. The Yin to his Yang."

"Hold up. You said Molly," Lestrade noted.

"Yes. She was in on the whole thing. I needed her help in the morgue to set up my 'death'."

"She knew the whole time!" I asked angrily.

"Don't hold it against her John. She was under my orders. But this is the part where you come in Sebastian. I knew of your existence from my indexes," he said waving at the locked cabinets under the bookshelves. "Moriarty's right hand man. You've been chasing my shadow for three years, preventing me from my grand resurrection. I knew a situation like this would arise if you figured out my little secret. So I waited in hopes that you would give up the chase or be killed in the battlefield of the underworld. But three years is a very long time and I can only stand my brother so much," he said tiredly.

"Mycroft?" I asked angrily.

"Of course. Aside from Molly, he was my only accomplice. He kept me locked up in the basement of the Diogenes Club and kept me busy helping him solve his political problems. I was so bored I sometimes wished I _had_ jumped! So I decided to set up the inevitable conclusion to this tale. I knew he would take you hostage to get me to reveal myself. So I sent the video to Lestrade to begin the process. I needed you to attract Sebastian's attention so I had you run from the police station, to Baker Street, then to dig up my grave, and then to Mycroft. As ordinary as he is, I doubt even he could miss your intentions."

"It's just like John said, he played us like a fiddle," Anderson said with a hint of awe in his voice.

"As per usual Anderson," Sherlock noted lightly as he turned on them. "I am surprised that _you two_ came along for the ride however."

Sally's eyes welled up with tears and she blinked them back furiously. "I-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her. "Don't ruin the little bit of respect I have for you."

"W-what?" she asked blinking up at him.

He smiled at her slightly. "I've always respected you for following your instincts. It was a perfectly logical assumption that I was a fraud. But you were the only one to voice your suspicions and challenge the truth instead of falling back on the easy path like Lestrade. There's no need to apologize."

A single tear fell down her cheek and she smiled at him bashfully. Anderson looked up at him, expecting a compliment too since Sherlock was being so uncharacteristically kind.

"You're still an idiot," Sherlock told him and Anderson huffed an annoyed sigh. "You couldn't even tell your nemesis apart from an old man!"

A look of confusion crossed Anderson's face and Sherlock chuckled. "_Basil_?"

"That was _you_ at the Diogenes Club!" I laughed. Sherlock was practically bouncing on his toes, relishing in the applause he so desperately craved.

"I couldn't help it," he admitted.

"So that's why Mycroft was so angry!" I said remembering Mycroft's unnecessarily abrasive attitude towards the old newspaper man.

The sound of Moran's gun cocking ended our entertainment. He held it up at Sherlock and locked his eyes on his head. "This has all been very fascinating," he said grimly. "But I think it's time to end this, don't you?"

"I concur," Sherlock said. At his words, the thugs that had taken us captive all turned their guns on _Moran_.

He looked around at them all wildly and asked in a dangerous whisper, "What's gotten into you lot?"

"Oh did I mention?" Sherlock mused. "These fine chaps are under my command now. Criminals are so terribly persuasive."

One of the gunman shrugged his shoulders under Moran's glare. "Offered us royal pardons! Imagine our luck."

Moran roared in fury and the man who had guarded Mrs. Hudson lunged at the gun and wrestled Moran to the floor. As the two scuffled, Mycroft strolled into the room and cast a disapproving look at them. "Remember, any harm to my brother or the hostages nullifies the pardons." Then the rest jumped into the brawl and in a matter of seconds had him apprehended. One of them handed Sherlock Moran's gun which he examined with as much enthusiasm as possible.

"Gift from Jim?" he asked the subdued sniper. Moran spit at his feet.

Mycroft turned to Lestrade and said, "I will handle him from here. He will be of no concern to Scotland Yard. Take him to the van outside boys."

Mycroft watched them from the window as Sherlock got to work on our binds. He undid mind first and I grabbed his wrists. I just stared at him. I couldn't do anymore. His expression softened and he patted my shoulders with an apology lurking in the depths of his sharp eyes. Then he got to work on the other four. Once freed, Lestrade stood and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to have you back, Sherlock."

"Good to be back Detective Inspector. Will I be allowed back on cases or am I still a fraud?" he asked releasing Mrs. Hudson next. She wrung her arms around his neck and wept happily into his shoulder.

"I'll take care of that," Lestrade promised him. "It will take time to undo the damage but I'll get it done."

"I hope you'll allow me the uses of my old rooms," Sherlock said trying to pry her off of him.  
>"You are the very worst tenant in London Sherlock Holmes. But I'll have you," she said wiping her face and patting his chest. I walked to the center of the room and squared my shoulders at him. He stared at me uncertainly and clasped his hands behind his back with an impish grin.<p>

"You're going to punch me," he told me.

"I was thinking about it, yeah," I admitted.

"Will you come back to Baker Street if I let you do it?"

"Back to finding body parts in the fridge, bullets in the walls, and experiments in my coffee? _Oh God yes_."

The End


End file.
